


All That's Left are the Sticks and Stones That Were Built by Other People

by littlemel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemel/pseuds/littlemel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Iero gives good head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That's Left are the Sticks and Stones That Were Built by Other People

**Author's Note:**

> The true miracle of Easter? I finally effing wrote something. Title from "Nature 1" by Muse. Originally posted March 24, 2008.

_Frank Iero gives good head._

Frank squints at the words, scrawled between the second and third urinal in the boys' bathroom by the science labs. He's not even supposed to be in this wing of the school, he's supposed to be in Pre-Calc, but he took the hall pass and went for a smoke outside the gym. It's November and already freezing out; they're predicting snow before Thanksgiving.

Frank's fingers are still cold from the wind, numb as he shakes his dick and tucks it back into his slacks, zipping up with a flick of his wrist. He rubs his thumb over the ink on the wall. It's Monday, middle of third period. Word gets around fast.

See, there was this party on Saturday night, at Andrea Santino's house. Not his usual scene, but he heard Mikey Way was gonna be there, and Frank hadn't seen him since fall break, so what the hell, right?

*

Yeah, what the hell.

He borrows his mom's car and promises to be home by one, parks around the corner from the house and rolls a fat joint under the glow of a streetlamp while he watches other people arrive. Carloads of kids, some he recognizes from school or around town, but most he doesn't. Girls in tank tops despite the cold, arms wrapped around themselves as they hike up the driveway. Guys in letterman jackets, leather jackets, band tees, hoodies. Couples huddled too close together, the odd loner ambling along with hands shoved firmly into pockets.

Frank keeps an eye out for Mikey while he lights the joint and takes a hit, deeper than he meant to. He coughs like a fucking amateur as his lungs overfill, squinting through the smoke clouding up around his face. A giggle catches in his chest, and he makes a mental note to get his shit from Tony more often; it's a fuck of a lot better than the ragweed he gets from the guy at the 7-11. Takes him half a joint's worth of that crap to get him buzzed at all. This is more like it, his eyelids already starting to feel tight. Frank does giggle then, quietly to himself.

When the cottonmouth catches up with him he puts the joint out with spit-damp fingers and tucks it into his pack of Camels, yanks his hood up over his head and makes his way across the street.

He passes two guys he recognizes from school, who nod at him amiably. Frank shrugs back, elbows his way through the knot of smokers at the front door to get inside, where it's warm and loud. Beastie Boys pounding through the floorboards, shouted conversations, the sweaty press of too many bodies in too small a space.

He stops a girl in a NOFX shirt, clutching a red plastic cup. "Drinks?" he asks. His tongue feels thick and heavy, knocking clumsily against the back of his teeth.

"Kitchen." She gestures behind her, past the staircase clogged with necking couples. "Back that way."

"Awesome, thanks." She nods and smiles, and he steps aside to let her pass, turning to glance after her. She's cute; maybe he'll try to find her again later. Beer first, though.

The usual crowd is holding court in the kitchen: a couple dudes with thick necks doing Cuervo shots over by the sink, two girls consoling their crying friend in front of the fridge, a handful of people huddled around the keg, waiting their turn. Frank grabs a cup from the stack on the counter and gets in line, trying to pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

His head bops along with the bass line as the song fades out, and in the beat of silence before the next song pounds on, Frank catches Mikey's laugh from somewhere off to his left. He fills his cup hastily, getting more foam than beer, and ducks out through the doorway into the living room.

Mikey's perched sideways on the arm of the sofa, talking to three girls piled into an armchair. He's all knobby knees and elbows and weird hair, his glasses slipped halfway down his nose. Frank shoulders his way across the room, grinning.

"Hey! Mikey Way!" he calls. Mikey turns, eyebrow quirked. His smile tucks up higher when he sees Frank.

"Hey!" Mikey holds out his arm and Frank slips in, squeezes Mikey's hip. He's a bony little fucker. Frank squirms when Mikey's fingers press into his own side; he's getting kind of soft around the middle. He should probably lay off the pot. And the beer.

" _Anyway_ ," says one of the girls in the armchair, sounding annoyed. "I have to pee." She turns to her friends. "Come on."

They file off in a cacophony of girl-voices, clipped and high. Frank pats Mikey's shoulder as he disengages and sinks into the abandoned armchair. The seat's warm, smells like perfume. "Shit," Frank says. "Did I just cock block you?"

"What? No! Dude, they were like, fifteen." Mikey palms his knees, grinning. "But if I say you did, will you give me a pity-sip of your beer?"

Frank hands over his cup. "Deal."

Mikey takes one long swallow, then another. He doesn't give the cup back. Frank shakes his head; he should've thought to bring Mikey his own. Kid's always got a drink in his hand, but it's usually someone else's. Mikey'll finish anything he ends up holding.

"So what's up, man?" Frank thwaps Mikey's leg with the back of his hand. "I haven't seen you in like two weeks."

This is the kind of friends they are, who'll see each other at parties and shows, who know a lot of the same people, but don't hang out otherwise. They play catch-up on other people's sofas, the hoods of other people's cars, over cigarettes and weed and watery beer. They talk about the bands they're playing in, the ones they've gone to see, who they ran into at shows, and hey, did you hear about Laura's brother getting arrested?

Once, they ended up making out in a guest bedroom, both drunk and bored by the party downstairs. And then once after that, in someone's backseat after bumming a ride home from a show, Mikey's bony fingers digging into Frank's thigh. It's always a good time when Mikey Way's around. A better time, definitely.

Other partygoers flit in and out of the conversation, mostly kids coming over to say hi to Mikey, who apparently knows everyone in the entire state. Or maybe it's the other way around.

"Hey," Frank says when the conversation lulls. Mikey _hmm_ s into the last of Frank's beer. "I'm too fucking sober." He pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket, fishes the roach out from under the cellophane wrapper. "Wanna come with? It's good shit... I pre-gamed a little."

"Hell yeah." Mikey pushes off the sofa, setting Frank's empty cup on the fireplace mantle. "Where to?"

It's probably easiest to head out back with the rest of the stoners, but Frank's not really in the mood. They could go to his car, but the last time he hot-boxed it his mom grounded him for two weeks. He's not even supposed to smoke cigarettes in there. And firing up a joint on the front steps probably isn't such a good idea when one of the neighbors is bound to call the cops on them sooner or later.

"Garage?"

They stop to grab two beers from the keg, then make a wrong turn into the laundry room and another into a broom closet before Frank finds the door to the garage. No one's down at this end of the house; the party seems far away, muffled. But Mikey seems awfully close, his breath hot and sour across Frank's neck.

"Uh, lemme find the light, hang on." Frank slaps blindly at the wall next to the door until his finger catches on the switch. A fluorescent bulb hums on, directly over an oil stain on the cement floor. There's a fridge in the opposite corner, probably with a few cases of Bud inside. A couple bikes hang on the wall, shelves of boxes labeled things like "Tax papers - 1991-1992" and "Xmas ornaments" above them. There's a few feet of space on the other side of the refrigerator, half-hidden from the doorway. Sort of private.

"Back here," he says. "Behind the fridge."

It's fucking freezing back there, drafty. Frank hands over the roach and his lighter, holds Mikey's beer while Mikey lights up. His cheeks hollow out when he sucks in a hit.

"Ho' shit," Mikey croaks, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. Tendrils of smoke leak out of the corner of his mouth. He coughs loudly on the exhale, gulps down half of his beer and comes up panting. "Warn a guy, Frankie."

"I told you it was good." Frank pinches the roach between his thumb and forefinger and takes a pull. The end is damp from Mikey's spit.

Frank shifts his weight to his other foot, huddles deeper inside his hoodie. An excuse to make his arm brush Mikey's. Their fingers bump as Frank passes the roach off again, and the whole vibe shifts subtly, crackling like static electricity. There's a sound in Frank's head like a motor revving; just his pulse hammering up, thundering between his ears, but when he sways it's into Mikey instead of away from him. Frank grabs at Mikey's shirt and he doesn't mean to tug, he doesn't, but he thinks Mikey stumbles, and then their noses are bumping, teeth clicking, smoke-bitter mouths smearing into a messy kiss.

Frank's beer slips from his hand, foaming up around his Chucks when it hits the floor. That's two beers now that he's lost to Mikey Way tonight. He giggles, the kiss coming apart under it.

"Alcohol abuse," Frank says. He takes Mikey's cup and puts it on top of the fridge, crowding Mikey back against the side of it in the process. "That's a party foul."

"Whatever. This party sucks anyway." Mikey's the one who reaches this time, tucks his fingers into the pocket of Frank's hoodie and pulls. And the thing is that, to look at him, you'd probably think Mikey's kind of bad at this, all awkward and fumbling. But the truth is that he's really goddamned _good_ at it. He kisses dirty, likes to put his hands everywhere. And the thing about Frank is, he can be kind of overenthusiastic with his affections. He likes to give as good as he gets. So it works out nicely.

Tonight, though, right now, Frank's impatient for more than just tongues and teeth. Could be the pot, since he's not drunk enough to blame the beer. Or maybe it's that Shannon's stopped returning his calls, which he's pretty sure means they've broken up, and he's tired of jerking off every night. Doesn't really matter either way, because Mikey's letting Frank pull at his clothes, scrabbling at the hem of his shirt to get underneath and find skin.

They both inhale sharply when he does, Mikey's belly going taut under Frank's fingers. Mikey's hips tilt up into Frank's, and Frank is suddenly very, very aware of how hard they both are. He goes for Mikey's mouth again, licking into it, his thumb slipping over the button of Mikey's jeans.

"Dude," Mikey laughs, grabbing Frank's wrist. "I got it." He pops the button and Frank grunts his thanks, pushes his fingers under the waist of Mikey's briefs.

It takes a little maneuvering, with Mikey having a good six inches of height on Frank, and his jeans being so fucking tight that Frank literally can't wedge his hand in. They're giggling, kissing, Mikey kneading Frank's shoulder. Frank finally hooks his thumbs into Mikey's jeans, works them down over his hips. They pause, panting against each other's mouths for a second before Frank ducks his head to nose at Mikey's chin, nudging it up so he can bite at the angle of Mikey's jaw.

"Lemme." He fists Mikey's dick loosely, and Mikey hunches and hikes into him, his forehead dropping to Frank's shoulder. Frank's teeth close in the collar of Mikey's shirt, sweat-salty and smelling like dryer sheets. His rhythm's all off, his hand out of sync with his mouth, his body moving faster than his mind can keep up with. His knees bend and he bites down Mikey's chest, making Mikey laugh. The floor is still wet from the beer Frank dropped; his jeans soaking through at the knees.

He takes a deep breath, wraps his hand around Mikey's dick again and noses at the dark hair curling above it. Mikey didn't shower before he came over here, Frank can tell, but then neither did he. He closes his eyes, licks his lips. Pulls back and then sinks down, mindful of his teeth when Mikey bucks, his hand tight in Frank's hair. Frank thinks Mikey says something--he makes a sound, a noise, but if it's a word it's completely lost on Frank.

Mikey pushes with his hips and pulls with his hands, and Frank feels how the bones shifts under the thin skin of Mikey's hip, the way his belly tenses up. Mikey exhales shakily, and this time Frank makes out his name, between pounds of his own heart. He tongues the head of Mikey's cock, under the crown, and Mikey jerks into him again, his teeth in his lip.

"Frankie, shit--"

Mikey's grip tightens warningly, his cock pulsing in Frank's mouth. Frank slicks down another inch, jacking the base of Mikey's dick with one hand and pressing the heel of the other to his own hard-on, just needing friction. He'll end up coming in his pants if he doesn't watch it. But Mikey'll take care of him, after. So he just moves his hand to his thigh, curling his fingers into the cool denim of his jeans.

Mikey stiffens and moans, spurting against the back of Frank's throat. Frank swallows reflexively, palming Mikey's hip as Mikey comes, then while he comes down, fingers flexing in Frank's hair. And then the door to the house is thrown wide, banging into the wall. Frank pulls off Mikey's softening cock, the back of his hand dragging across his wet mouth, unfocused eyes cutting to the steps.

It's a girl he knows from school, some soccer player's girlfriend, he thinks; he's noticed her in the background of a couple hallway torture sessions. She's got a drink in her hand, but it looks like most of it's on her sweater. Her mouth slacks open.

"Oh. My. God."

She backs up the steps and disappears into the house, leaving the door hanging open behind her. Frank slumps back on his heels and looks up at Mikey, who's rumpled and a little wild-eyed, his dick half-tucked inside his jeans, a wet streak across his thigh.

"Monday outta be interesting," Frank smirks. He watches Mikey zip up, takes the hand Mikey offers him and gets to his feet. "Fuck. Oh well."

"Don't sweat it, dude. It'll be old news by Wednesday." Mikey turns to retrieve his beer from the top of the fridge. "What are they gonna say, anyway? That you were sucking me off? There are worse things they can say about you than the truth, man."

Frank just nods, waving off Mikey's beer when Mikey holds it out. Now he's pissy, not really in the mood to hang around and see how else tonight can go wrong. And to add insult to injury, he's still hard. Might as well go finish the job.

"I'm just gonna head home, I think."

"You sure?" Mikey tugs at Frank's shirt. "We could go somewhere, if you want...?"

"Nah, it's cool. I've got church with my mom in the morning anyway. But hey, are you going to see--"

"--on Thursday night?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"So I'll see you then?" Frank asks. Mikey looks as nonplussed as ever, and it makes Frank smile. He's never seen Mikey Way lose his cool. He's not sure he wants to.

"Yeah, man." Mikey claps a hand over the back of Frank's neck, thumb kneading at the tense muscles there. "You're good to drive and everything?"

"I'm a very high-functioning stoner. And it's only a couple miles. I'm good."

He kind of wants to kiss Mikey again, but he doesn't. Knows full well how stupid that would be, that the hallway behind them is probably about to be flooded with curious classmates hoping to catch Frank's walk of shame. He settles for the brush of his cheek over Mikey's wrist when he ducks out from under Mikey's hand.

"Later, Mikey Way."

Voices swell up inside the house, getting closer and louder. Frank crosses the garage to jab at the door switch. It rattles open, creaky and loud, and Frank steps out into the cold night, his face stinging in the wind, overwarm. He keeps his head up, his eyes straight ahead as he makes his way down the driveway, across the street, into the safety of his car.

*

_Frank Iero gives good head._

It doesn't smudge at all, either on the wall or Frank's fingertips. Looks like it was written in Sharpie; it's definitely gonna take more than one coat of paint to cover. Yeah, the school's gonna love that.

He's been in here too long, knows he'll catch hell when he gets back to class because now he's missed a quarter of it, and he reeks of smoke. Wouldn't be the first time, and probably won't be the last. But he can't just walk out like he never saw what he's seeing. He can't just do _nothing_. It's a pride thing.

He thinks of what Mikey said, in the garage: _there are worse things people can say about you than the truth_. That kid is like some kind of zen master, Frank swears, grinning as he feels around in his pocket for the pen he knows is there. The black felt-tip he keeps for doodling on the backs of his notebooks and the tops of his Chucks.

He crosses out the _good_ with a thick black X and scribbles _GREAT_ above it, tracing over the letters twice.


End file.
